


valley of dying stars

by sarcasticallyspidey



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Homesickness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Minor Original Character(s), Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Post-Apocalypse, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Suicide Ideation - sort of, five has a skewed view of life, i literally just put the comic version bc of mr. pennycrumb, its five and klaus against the world, somebody give them hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticallyspidey/pseuds/sarcasticallyspidey
Summary: In the apocalypse, there were few things of comfort left that hadn't been destroyed in ruins of flame and ash and dirt.Five clung desperately to the touch of a storefront mannequin (her hands were always cold, cold like the earth and the dead, so many dead and yet still screaming), while Klaus stuck to his cigarettes like they were an old friend, an old habit that did little to calm the nerves that sprung like wildfire through his veins.But they had each other. Four and Five - an unnatural pair, the Séance and the Boy, walking over the same soil their family had died on, the same soil they would've been buried under so many years ago.It's not the end of everything, just the end of something.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56





	1. in the end of most things

The nights are getting colder. 

Five learned a long time ago that in order to stay sane in the apocalypse, he needed a mission to focus his mind on – something small, mundane, a problem to be remedied and ticked off the to-do list with ease. So, winter clothes. They need clothes for the upcoming winter – coats, pants, boots, and the like. 

Logically, Five knows his current wardrobe, consisting solely of Academy issued uniforms and a pair of fuzzy rainbow socks Klaus picked from the ruins of his now decimated bedroom, isn’t going to last forever. But he doesn’t want to give up his last comfort, his last reminder of what once was. 

He knows Reginald would call it a weakness. The echo of the ghost of Reginald Hargreeves screams and rattles around in his head like a parasite. _This is foolish, Number Five! Wasting time on these childish impulses will only hold you back in the end. Where would you be now, if you had not acted like the child you are instead of the hero you were meant to be?_

As on most days, Five wants to tell Reginald to go fuck himself. But too little, too late, he supposes. 

They’re still holed up in the ashen husk of a 24/7 diner, of which the broken sign by the door reads only “We” instead of “We’re open,” and out of the four walls only two now remain. Five can imagine it was once quite homey here, with ornate wooden furniture and cream-colored booths. There’s only one booth left standing now, and he and Klaus sleep on either of the two plush seats, though Five is awake – working through The Equation, glancing at the door for other stragglers, and keeping an eye out for Klaus’ breathing – more often than not. 

Five is the only one awake now, in the early hours of the morning, and he watches the rising sun cast a warm glow on the corpse of New York. Whatever happened, whatever caused the end of all (scratch that, _most_ of all) things, it emanated here – that much is clear enough. The city’s remains are a skeleton of crumbling walls and devastated, burnt-out, barely-there architecture – it looks like someone detonated an atomic bomb right on their doorstep. 

Five knows there must be something beyond this, beyond the stench of the dead and rotting and beyond the miles upon miles of derelict nothingness, but he knows better than to hope (and where did _hope_ get him last time? Or the time before that?). He’ll leave the hoping to Klaus. 

For now, he’ll do what he can. Clothes, food, extra supplies even, wouldn’t hurt. Five carries a paper map of the city wherever they go, crossing out whole streets and circling others and wiping some completely out when they scavenge – keeping a marker of what’s good, what’s bad, and what’s already gone. Five unpacks the map from where it rests in the front pouch of his bag and spreads it out on the table with a prominent frown. The map is so full of X’s that little else can be seen. (Sometimes he really hates being right.) 

“Damn it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face and letting it drop on the table with a resounding thud. Five winces at the sound, eyes flicking to his brother with a hint of guilt. 

Klaus shifts and opens his eyes, his joints popping in quick succession as he stretches. “Hmm?” he asks, sparing a look at Five before turning his gaze to the window. 

Five watches his brother’s face morph, a failed attempt at concealing the same disappointment Five feels every morning as he looks out, only to be greeted with the same disheartening, destroyed view he’s seen for the last four months. _Don’t bother,_ he wants to say, _it hasn’t changed, and maybe it never will._

“It looks like our options are dwindling again,” he says instead. “We might have to move further out of the city.” 

Klaus turns to raise an eyebrow at that. “Well... you always did want to see the Statue of Liberty, brother dear.” 

“And I think we should get some heavier clothing, with winter getting closer. We don’t have a clear picture of what the climate is like anymore,” Five says. 

“Right. Okay. So – the Walmart on Wallace Street? And how’s our food supply, what’s on the menu today?” Klaus asks, drumming his fingers on the table distractedly. Five wonders, not for the first time, if he’s seeing a ghost. 

There was once a time in which Five would never admit to not knowing anything, even the smallest of details. ( _Ignorance is the world’s greatest weakness, Number Five._ ) Now he knows there is much more in the world than he will ever begin to understand. There’s a whole other world out there that cannot be seen nor heard, nor interacted with, unless you happened to be one of the 43 children born on October 1st, 1989, and you happened to have the innate ability (read: curse) to walk in limbo between the land of the living and the land of the dead, and you happened, coincidentally, to be named Klaus Hargreeves. 

It’s a constant struggle for Five to resist pestering Klaus with questions on the topic – since he is the world’s one true specialist on the topic, after all. As children, Five never understood Four’s aversion, hatred, fear of his own power – but now, after everything he’s seen (and subsequently wished he could erase from his memory, wipe from existence like wiping clean a slate), he’s inclined to believe him. He doesn’t ask and Klaus certainly isn’t telling, either. 

Five clears his throat, shuffling out of the booth and pulling his bag and the map with him. “Oh, you know, your favorites. We have two cans of canned chicken, one can of Spaghetti-o's, one can of beans…” 

“Not bad, I guess – could be worse,” Klaus says with a shrug. He trails behind Five, to the counter where their little mock kitchen is set up. 

Five picks the Spaghetti-o's (even though he’s starting to hate the taste of them), turns on the propane on their camp stove, and waits for the pot to heat. They eat in comfortable silence, and clean and repack everything once they’re done. 

“So, whaddya say we do a little shoplifting while the day’s still young?” Klaus asks. 

They’re walking side-by-side down the middle of the avenue now and Klaus is stepping one foot directly in front of the other as if to prove he hasn’t been drinking. (Despite the fact that he really hasn’t - shockingly, hasn’t drank a drop since they arrived here, Klaus has to hold his arms out straight to avoid toppling over. And he still does, almost. Five yanks him upright by his shirt sleeve at the last second, shaking his head with the tiniest of smiles.) 

“Sure.” 

“Oh, Fivey, don’t sound so excited,” Klaus says. “Don’t worry, last time I saw a leopard-print jacket that had your name written all over it.” 

Five groans and Klaus grins. “Please no,” he says. 

“Ah-ah, beggars can’t be choosers. C’mon, you know this – rule number one of the apocalypse, _mein bruder._ ” 

“I think I’d rather freeze,” Five mutters. 

“Aw, c’mon. Express yourself, live a little. The old man isn’t here to force you into that ratty old uniform anymore,” Klaus presses. 

“Good argument, but unfortunately my answer is still no.” 

He ends up with the leopard-print jacket anyway, much to Klaus’ amusement. He swaps the Academy uniform for jeans, a black long-sleeve, and his saving grace, a pair of sturdy boots. The weather isn’t yet cold enough to warrant actually wearing the jacket, but he’ll need it soon enough - he tells Klaus this much and is answered with a laugh and a knowing, almost proud “I knew it.” (So sue him if he wants to make his brother smile for once.) 

Overall, pickings are incredibly slim. The Walmart on Wallace St. is only a few minutes' walk from the diner, and yet it is in such a state of devastation that it is entirely unrecognizable as a storefront. In other words, what they’re calling a ‘Walmart’ is simply an assortment of what were probably once walls, a few sparing aisles of dusty and charred toys, and by some miracle, a light wardrobe of women’s and boy’s clothing. Klaus leaves only with a generously thick button-up coat that swallows his slender frame entirely (looking much too similar to a child playing dress-up in his mother’s closet), and the clothes already on his back. 

“Well. Maybe you’ll have better luck next time?” Five says, a poor attempt at faux-positivity. 

“Yeah,” Klaus agrees. “Hey, what are the chances I’ll find a paisley pantsuit? Or maybe something tie-dye?” he asks, perking up. 

“That sounds horrendous.” 

Klaus shrugs, still smiling. “You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to, Fivey.” 

Five watches his brother kick a toy robot across the street, hears the clang as it connects with an overturned trashcan and bounces aimlessly back. Then, they’re both looking around wildly for the source of a high pitch shrill that rings out through the air – it's an inhuman scream that tapers off into chaotic shrieking, like a corrupted psychotic cackling. 

There, bounding dopily down the street towards them, with a limp in its right foot and sticky, hot drool pooling slowly out of its mouth, is a coyote. A coyote – in freaking New York City. Not only that, but a rabid coyote. 

“What the hell?” Klaus says, echoing Five’s own thoughts. 

The coyote, of course, does not respond, other than quickening its pace and letting out a low whine. 

“Shit - fuck – we should get _**moving**_ ,” Five spits out after an entirely-too-long lapse in judgment, of which he spent the time wondering why in the hell he left their bags behind. He grabs onto Klaus’ sleeve and tugs hard, dragging him along behind as he runs like a bat out of hell in the direction they came. 

The coyote shrieks again, a maniacal thing, and Five’s heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. They weave in between cars left standing in traffic, broken and beaten and completely inoperable, and Five grabs ahold of a sideview mirror laying in partial pieces on the ground and throws it haphazardly behind them. It doesn’t connect and the coyote’s still close. Five can almost feel the heavy panting and spittle on the backs of his legs, hear the wheezing of every pained breath. 

Then, as abrupt and final as the last page of a favorite book, two gunshots ring out in the air. Five nearly jumps out of his skin, stopping abruptly, and Klaus seems to do the same. The coyote lets out a pained whine from where it now lies on the pavement, bloody and soon-to-be lifeless. Five doesn’t feel anything. 

“Sorry boys, didn’t mean to scare ya!” someone says, a slight southern twang in their voice. 

Standing a few feet away is a woman – she's tall and blonde and holding her handgun out as if the coyote could still spring up at any moment and tear them all into pieces, and Five feels a pang in is heart as he realizes _she looks like Mom._ (But it isn’t Grace – Grace is dead, their family is dead, and everything they’ve ever known is buried six feet under, side-by-side, in homemade graves.) 

“Who the hell are you?” Five asks, suddenly crude and more than a bit annoyed. By his side, Klaus stiffens, and Five (though he would never admit it) feels overcome with a need to protect him, to cover and shield him from all threats – including this woman, if she proves to be one. 

The first and only other time they interacted with another human being (in a world scarce of any beings whatsoever), was a bloody haze in Five’s memories. The image of Klaus – innocent, immature at thirteen years old, going on thirty, Klaus – covered in the blood of another man and weeping for a home they might never return to, would forever be burned into Five’s retinas. 

“Jesus, kid – such a nice way to greet your savior,” the woman says, pocketing her handgun in the waistband of her jeans like a common street-thug. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Uh huh. I’ll ask again – who are you?” Five repeats cautiously. 

“My name’s Addison,” she says with a roll of her eyes, raising her hands in fake surrender. 

“Just stay away from us,” Five says, raising a hand that would do nothing against a bullet, but perhaps give Klaus some time to get out of here, if the situation escalates. 

“Look kid, here’s how I see it: if I hadn’t gotten here and saved your skinny little asses when I did, you’d be puppy chow,” she says. “I’m not a threat to you, I’m just looking for my daughter.” 

“What she... uh, does she live here?” Klaus asks. 

“She lives around Oakland Gardens – or she did, anyway. Most survivors are heading west, I think. I’m just hoping there’s a chance she’s one of the ones who stayed behind – like you two _lovely_ characters.” 

Five swallows, clenches and unclenches his fists, then deflates. If Addison’s story is true, her daughter is most likely dead – and Five doesn’t have the patience nor the emotional capacity to break that to her. She doesn’t look like the type to give up on family, though, and it’s a notion Five can relate to wholeheartedly. 

“You said the survivors are moving west?” Klaus asks, hopeful. 

“Sure, sure. There’s rumors of a military-startup group stationed on the California coast – says they’ll take anyone in that can still move. It’s just whispers, but then again, most people don’t have much left to lose.” 

“And the weather’s changing,” Five says. 

“That, too.” 

“You should come with us,” Klaus says, out of the blue, and Five’s head swivels to the side so fast at hearing this that he can practically hear it crack. 

“With you?” Addison repeats. 

“Yeah, uh-” Klaus pauses, wiping a sweaty hand down the front of his jeans, before presenting it to the woman with a charming smile. “I’m Klaus, and this is my brother, Five. Sorry, he’s not one for first impressions, or any impressions at all really, but he grows on you, I guess. Like a fungus.” 

Addison raises an eyebrow at that, but shakes his hand nonetheless. “Thanks for the offer, kid, but I should be looking for my family,” she says. 

“Right, of course.” Klaus nods. 

Addison swings her pack around from her back and rummages around for a few moments, before producing another handgun. She holds it out to Five. He raises an eyebrow. 

“You may wanna take this – for another Wile E Coyote, or something worse,” she says. 

“Thank you,” Five says simply. “Good luck finding your daughter.” 

“I’ll be seeing you, Five,” Addison adds as a final farewell. There’s something in her voice Five can’t quite place, but he’s already watching her leave as his questions die where they rest on his tongue. 

Klaus loops an arm around Five’s shoulders. “That was fun. Let’s not do that again, yeah?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Five says simply. 

Klaus frowns a bit at that but seems to shake it off as he trudges forward, Five silent by his side. “C’mon Fiver, it’ll be dark soon. We should get moving.” 

Five, meanwhile, turns the gun over in his hands, reads the shitty inscription of _RLS_ down its side. The woman, Addison, left him with an uneasy feeling – her body language was guarded, closed off, she was clearly hiding something. The Hargreeves blood in him screams for more information, to uncover her secrets at any cost – but Klaus’ life isn’t something he’s willing to risk. 

Being here, in the End of Most Things, brings meaning forward. The meaning of life now, for Five, is simple: protect Klaus, return to their family, and damn all else. Nothing else matters anyway.


	2. there will be no sound at all

“All I’m saying is – if I had to pick a favorite, it’d be Tinkerbell. Or – or Lucipurr! Hey, what about Catrick?” Klaus says, arms waving animatedly as they walk. He’s currently in the middle of a lively discussion on the best pet names known to man – a clever (read: paper-thin) distraction gimmick meant to calm the tremor in his hands that appeared mid-morning. 

Five replies instantly. “Tinkerbell is okay. The others? Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if you woke up in the middle of the night with one less eyeball.” 

“From you or the cat?” Klaus asks. 

“Which do you think?” Five replies, a sly Cheshire’s grin on his face. He’s been holding the woman’s gun since they left New York, and every so often his eyes flit down to it with a look comparable to that of a psychopath who's just moved on from his usual prey of neighborhood pets. (Klaus simply pretends he doesn’t notice and hopes he’s not the first in a long line of murders.) 

Klaus gasps dramatically, putting a hand to his heart. “Oh, _mon frère_ , you wound me!” 

“Don’t tempt me, I just might,” he says – and there’s that look again. 

Klaus huffs, turns his head the other way and shoves his hands into his pockets as a cold breeze passes by. 

For the first time in his life, the world is quiet – the only sounds here are the occasional bird, occasional word passed from brother to brother, or the occasional dust blowing in the wind. No people, or not many – but no ghosts, either. Klaus lived fourteen terrible years in screaming agony, hearing his name whispered on the tongues of the long-deceased, and now there’s just silence. (Sometimes he thinks silence can be just as deafening.) 

The woman – Addison, had brought no vengeful ghouls in entourage either, which was primarily the reason Klaus had trusted her so easily. His own _family_ had ghosts in tow - _**Five**_ had ghosts in tow, before they arrived here. Now they were all gone, scattered like the ashes of New York City. 

Klaus knows it’s a good thing. He knows he'd be screaming, begging for a fix – of weed, of something stronger – begging for a way out of this miserable existence. And yet, it’s still too quiet. Klaus could scream and scream and scream until his lungs burst and it’d never make a difference, because there’s no one around to hear it. 

Except his brother. His brother with a gun in his hand, about half a dozen knives in his pack, and a manic tendency to hurt people. 

Klaus bumps his shoulder against his short (and equally short-tempered) brother. He’s always been the one to tempt fate, anyway. “But ah... if memory serves me right, you’ve always liked dogs more - isn’t that so, bro?” 

Five gives an unconcerned _mhmm_ in lieu of answering. Klaus prods on. 

“Remember when you spent a week trying to convince dear ol’ Dad to adopt one? You said we could bring him along on missions, dress him up in a little superhero costume.” Klaus says, grinning. “What was his name going to be again?” 

“Mr. Pennycrumb – and don’t you dare laugh, or I’ll bust out your kneecaps.” 

Klaus laughs anyway, although it’s a short and pathetic little thing that dies suddenly in his throat. “Mr. Pennycrumb is a... _beautiful_ name.” 

“It’s stupid. I was _**seven**_ ,” Five argues. 

Klaus hums, doesn’t respond. 

Seven years old and a soldier, all the same. They all were. Klaus suspects that somewhere out there, lost in time and lost to the dead world now – somewhere, the others are still playing soldier for a father who could never learn to say the words ‘I love you.’ If Five is right, and he very nearly always is, then the others would have been 30 at the end of the world. 

Sometimes, and only sometimes – in the numb pitch blackness of the night, when Five thinks he is sleeping soundly – Klaus wishes he was with them. That he died in a fiery blaze, a blistering heat so all-consuming that his existence faded into the nothingness that his father always assumed he would become. That he could take the easy route, a permanent end to a miserable excuse of existence. 

And yet, he’s still here. 

Walking, talking, joking around – being the ex-almost-junkie comedic relief to his brother’s emo charade. It’s almost easy, Klaus thinks, slipping into the comforting waters of his usual façade. 

It's even easier to forget it is a façade. To get so lost in the act that he finds himself drawn to Five’s map, the last remaining pharmacies that are so, so invaluable to them now, but so, so tempting to someone who’s been taking any and all available drugs like they’re candy since the tender age of six. He doesn’t just want them, he _needs_ them, craves them, loves them (hates them) - every fiber of his being screams for that desperate high that just isn’t coming. He won’t let it. 

He’s been through withdrawals, that skin on fire sensation of a thousand burning suns, the screaming, paralyzing pain and discomfort that never stops. But now it seems the desperation of their current situation is enough of a motivator to stay away (for the time being). Five needs someone to be there for him, and maybe that’s enough. (It feels too good to be true.) 

By his side, Five is quiet. Solemn. Maybe tired, too – they’ve been walking since the sun rose early in the morning and defrosted the land, just as they did yesterday, and the day before that, and so on. 

Klaus may be agnostic, but he thinks if there is a God up there somewhere, they must be getting bored as fuck looking for new ways to screw them over. 

Nights here are hard, they’re long and so cold they’ve had to huddle for warmth like goddamn animals in the dark. The moon, a small and unassuming thing in the corner of the sky at night, is gone and now the world’s a wasteland - but it’s more than that. There’s the eerie lack of ghosts and the broken light switches and the inoperable electricity, all of that and they’ve only been in one tiny corner of the world. Whatever else is out there, Klaus only hopes it isn’t the thing that started this mess. 

A gust of wind, stronger now and cold as ice, passes by and Klaus shivers, wrapping his silly detective’s coat tighter around his body. The sun’s going down, and he notes this with a twinge of dismay as he realizes Five will not enjoy the day’s lack of progress. 

Klaus glances again at his brother. He’s thinking, clearly, about the equation or the woman, and every so often his face scrunches up into a disappointed frown as he whispers _no_ under his breath. That will not do. 

“I think you’re doing it wrong,” Klaus says abruptly. At least, Five looks like it was abrupt. To be honest, he kind of looks like he had forgotten Klaus was there. 

“Doing... what wrong?” 

“Thinking,” Klaus says. “It’s not supposed to be painful.” 

Five rolls his eyes. “I should be saying that to you.” 

“Au contraire mon frère, _I_ was thinking we should find a new abode to squat in for the night. You know daddy dearest wouldn’t approve of us being out past curfew.” To emphasize this, Klaus waggles his finger at Five. 

“Number Four, Number Five! This blatant disrespect for the rules will do you no good! How can anyone expect you to save the world when you’re too busy sneaking around at night and behaving like foolish idiots,” Klaus adds, in his very best Dear Old Reggie voice. 

This earns a chuckle out of Five. Klaus considers it a win. 

******* 

It’s a lovely abode. Four walls, a spacious interior with cream and light blue walls, and plenty of rooms for them to explore (read: loot). If it weren’t for the stench of rotting food from a nearby supermarket and the piles of ash that completely covered the outside front porch, Klaus could almost call it a home. 

There’s a barn out back, too. The fence was destroyed but there are still a few chickens and a cow. Some plants. Not that Klaus knows how to fucking _garden_ , but... 

The pantry, of course, is where their luck runs thin. It seems the owners of this house – a perfect nuclear family, a mother and father of two identical daughters, according to the picture on the wall – left in a rush. The non-perishables have been ransacked; the pantries left open in haste. There’s still an uneaten meal sitting out on the table, four pristine plates of what was once probably meatloaf, now gone cold and moldy waiting alone for months. 

“They look happy,” Five says, pointing to the picture. He’s already spread their belongings over the table, merging their food supply with the unwanted cans of green beans and cream of mushroom soup (gag) left over by the family. 

Klaus shrugs. “I guess. If by happy, you mean dreadfully boring,” he says, tipping the picture over for good measure. 

“You know, it’s statistically very unlikely to have twins with red hair. I wouldn’t call that boring.” 

“I think I lost you after the word _statistically_.” 

Five rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Or what?” Klaus asks, stupidly, and he has but a second to recognize his mistake before hearing the telltale crackle behind him as Five smacks him on the back of his head. 

“Or next time won’t just be a warning,” Five replies, smiling an evil little grin. 

Klaus eggs him on, just for fun. “Whatever you say, short-stack,” he mutters. 

“Do you have a death wish?” Five asks. 

“Maybe?” Klaus says with a shrug. “I can’t help it, you’re just so _tiny_ – like a little baby.” 

“One more word,” Five warns. “And I will hurt you.” 

Klaus grins a manic thing, claps his hands together. “Ooh, kinky! I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing, little bro, but I think we can make it work.” 

The funny thing about little Number Five (aside from the obvious), is that he always wears the same expression after Klaus says something so incredibly stupid, it’s as if he’s erasing all traces of the memory from his brain. Klaus always wishes he has a camera for these little moments. 

While Five is regretting his life-choices, Klaus decides to make a break for it – still chuckling under his breath, arms flailing wildly at his sides as he runs. 

He thinks Five might just forget about him entirely, until he’s smacked in the side from an unseen perpetrator and his thoughts are proven wrong. 

“Did you just throw a branch at me?” Klaus gasps. 

He can’t see Five, but he can hear him. “It was a twig – don't be such a baby.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m very delicate,” Klaus says, heading towards the barn and slowing down as he runs out of breath. “I’m probably going to bruise now, thanks.” 

Five appears beside him in a flash of blue. “You’re welcome.” 

“You could at least pretend to be tired,” Klaus huffs, still panting as Five pushes the large wooden barn doors open with ease. 

“I wouldn’t want to stroke your already massive ego,” Five says. Klaus snorts. 

The barn is decently sized and looks to be handmade, built haphazardly from wood and stocked with bales of hay. Klaus can spy a fat, pink rat tail peeking out from behind a haystack, and it smells faintly of urine. (A year ago, Klaus would have gagged at the smell, now he barely notices it. He supposes spending months around the stench of decaying food and corpses has something to do with this.) 

Klaus is wildly amused to find a crossbow propped up against the back wall, next to a quiver with six arrows sitting neatly inside. There’s a ripped and torn target on the ground beneath it, though most of the holes are nowhere even near the center. 

“Oh my god, this is so cool,” Klaus says. 

At the same time, Five – now up in the loft – curses loudly and says “Well, that doesn’t look good.” 

Snatching the bow and quiver, Klaus makes his way up the stairs. 

“What the fuck?” he says, thinking out loud. 

There’s a dead body in the loft. It’s a man, tall and blonde, face splattered with freckles and blood drops. He’s clutching a shotgun in one hand and his eyes are still open, dead and lifeless but still watching. Klaus kicks at his leg. 

“Really?” Five asks. 

He shrugs. “Should we... bury him, or something? It feels kind of rude to use his house and then leave him here.” 

Five shrugs back. 

And so they get to digging. It’s a decent grave – not as nice or heartfelt as the ones they made for their brothers and sisters, and there are no tears mixed with the fiery ashes of civilization this time, but it’s decent, nonetheless. Klaus watches silently, numb and for the first time, not from a drug, as Five adds the last pile of dirt, hiding the man’s unseeing eyes from view. 

“The poor bastard,” Klaus says as they’re heading back to the house. 

Five is carrying the dead man’s shotgun, and Klaus is actually really glad he’s not staring intensely at the one given to him by Addison anymore. No gun and no creepy stare would perhaps be his preference, but he’ll take what he can get. 

As night rolls in, the only source of light becomes the tiny yellow dots from the candles, illuminating their dinner of cold green beans and protein bars. Sometimes Klaus likes to pretend that they’re eating somewhere else – somewhere where their mother, Grace, is cooking at the stove with a pleasant smile as she watches Klaus try on her favorite pair of heels. He’ll sprain his ankle and get in trouble with Reginald for sure, but he’ll enjoy every second of it. 

And then he opens his eyes to this shitshow reality. It’s a downer, that’s for sure. 

It’s a unanimous decision to sleep on the two matching paisley couches, instead of in the bedrooms. The living room has a perfect view of the front and only door outside (in case of any midnight mishaps with strangers) and Klaus certainly doesn’t want to let his brother out of his sight for any longer than necessary. 

(Klaus keeps a knife under his pillow in case of emergencies, Five does the same with Addison’s gun, and neither of them mention it.) 

He’s on the precipice of falling asleep (which is an absolute fucking shock, honestly) and he’s about to tell Five to shut the hell up and stop muttering the same random nonsense over and over, when he realizes. 

That isn’t Five’s voice. 

Klaus opens his eyes, and there’s a man standing above him. 

And so, as any reasonable person would do when confronted with a ghost, Klaus _**screams**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midway through this chapter i realized that i am not writing for a children's show and thus, klaus can say fuck as much as physically possible


	3. the sun's gone dim

Not for the first time in his life, Five wakes to screaming. Most importantly – his _brother’s_ screaming, and that’s more than enough to spur him into action. He’s grabbing the gun from where it's been hidden underneath his pillow and aiming it before he can register that the threat isn’t even there. Not for him, anyway. 

It’s a ghost, and by the look on Klaus’ face, it’s not one he wanted to see. 

Klaus isn’t screaming anymore, but his noise has faded into hurried, panicked wheezing and a tremor in his hands that doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. His knees are pulled up to his chest, and he looks so _small_. Klaus is tall, he has a good few inches on Five, and yet he looks so thin and frail here, curling in on himself protectively and stifling his panic in vain with the back of his hand. 

(And the words _protectprotectprotect_ roll on a broken record in Five’s head, a searing reminder of the broken promises he once told their siblings.) 

“Klaus? Can you hear me?” Five says softly, carefully. 

Klaus shakes his head so fast that Five worries he might get whiplash. “I don’t want them to come back,” he whispers. 

“What do you mean? Who is it?” 

“The man, it's a man, and he’s _here_ \- but I thought they had all _gone_ ,” Klaus says, wiping away tears vehemently with the back of his hand. 

“Gone?” Five parrots. 

“The End, the apocalypse! Whatever happened, it made everything go away. I was just – it was so silent. I’ve never had that before, I was just getting used to it. But now he’s here, so they must all be coming too, and I _**can’t-**_ ” 

Five cuts him off. “You won’t have to. We can find something.” 

Klaus laughs, and it’s bitter and it’s cold and most importantly, it’s so very sad. “What, like weed? Coke, maybe? Hate to break it to you, Fivey, but my usual dealers are all fucking dead,” he bites out. 

“No! I don’t mean drugs, just-” Five huffs, clenches his fists, and relaxes. Even if it’s annoying as hell, he supposes it's better for Klaus to be angry than sobbing in the midst of a meltdown. 

He readjusts his tactic. “Can you just... tell him to leave you alone?” he asks softly. 

“It doesn’t work like that.” 

Five raises an eyebrow. “Have you tried?” 

Klaus shoots him a blank look, before shaking his head and sighing. Five follows his gaze to the empty hallway he knows leads to an unusable laundry room, though he doesn’t know what he’s looking at, if he’s even looking in the right direction. 

“Piss off, ghost,” Klaus deadpans, then shakes his head after a beat. “Nothing.” 

“It was worth a try,” Five says. “What’s he doing?” 

“You don’t want to know, trust me,” he says with a shake of his head. 

Five doesn’t actually know what to say to that. His mouth, that trigger-happy little shit, begins to form the letter _I_ in _I’m sorry_ and Five pauses to think – he’s sorry for what? 

Is he sorry for the ghost? Is he sorry for Klaus being born into an ugly, unforgiving world – spat out with no sense of direction, a Ouija board without a goddamn manual in an apocalypse overrun with corpses that _just_ start making an appearance? Or, no – maybe he’s sorry for stranding them there in the first place, disregarding their father’s _one piece_ of good advice and throwing caution to the wind. 

He’s sorry for everything, and it’s still not enough. 

(Sorry won’t take them back to 2002.) 

Five cracks his neck and sighs, settling on a positive approach. “Well, if you want to sit here on this godawful couch all day then be my guest, but there are better ways to ignore someone than to just pretend they don’t exist – trust me, I bunked with Luther.” 

He tries to crack a smile (and finds that his smile has more cracks than pavement). 

“And what would that be, brother dear?” 

“Target practice.” 

******* 

Klaus is definitely not a fast learner. Or a learner at all, really. 

Archery was never Five’s strong suit (he always preferred the cold metal feel of a gun resting in his left hand – the in-your-face recoil, that jump-back sensation, feels like a wakeup call for his sins) - but _Klaus_? Klaus couldn’t hit a target if it was right in front of him. Which it is. 

And it’s not the constant pull on his left hand, the draw-weight of someone who’s not nearly close to Klaus’ build and stature, that’s not the problem. It’s keeping his timing in check. Despite Five’s constant comments and criticisms, Klaus has a rather consistent problem of pulling the bow too early, holding it for too long, letting his left hand get weaker and weaker until _snap_ \- the bow is flying off unbounded in some random direction. 

Klaus needs to have confidence in what he’s doing. Five tells him this and receives a middle finger in response. 

“Bitch please, I _radiate_ confidence,” he says. 

“In your stance,” Five clarifies, giving him an exaggerated eye roll. “See your target, visualize it, draw and release. Don’t overthink it.” 

“Yesterday I couldn’t think and now today I’m thinking too hard. Something about that doesn’t make sense.” 

Five brings a hand up to rub at his temple. “ _Klaus_.” 

“Sorry, sorry – yeesh. I just don’t understand why you want me to get this so badly. It’s not like I’ll need it, I have my trusty sidekick to protect me at all times,” he says. “ _Aaand_ that’s you, by the way.” 

Five raises an eyebrow – not at the nickname, but at the idea that _he_ would be the sidekick. (Certainly, if they were comic book superheroes, it would be the other way around.) 

He shakes his head. “It’s not just for protection – actually, you'd be better off fighting an attacker with your hands than a bow and arrow. But these leftover cans aren’t going to last us forever, we’re going to need another way to find food that doesn’t involve scraping the moldy pieces off of the someone’s Sunday dinner.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Klaus says, drawing the arrow back and aligning it with the target. “I was finally getting used to the canned Spam.” 

And then he lets go. The arrow flies straight and steady, hitting its mark not dead-on, but in the corner of the crappy drawn-on target Five made earlier. Paper peels from wood, barely clinging to each other with the aid of four-month-old tape. Five breaks out into a grin. 

“Good job, Klaus. I’m actually... _proud_ of you,” he says. 

Klaus smiles back, and it’s bright and delighted and a little bit endearing, and Five has to wonder, is it really this easy to share happiness, a smile, words of encouragement? (And why was it so hard for their father?) 

“Better watch out for me, next thing you know I'll be a big game hunter.” 

"We’ll be lucky if you can hit a rabbit with that thing.” 

“There’s the Five I know and love.” 

“The feeling isn’t mutual.” 

“Hmm,” is all Klaus says, which is concerning enough considering that Klaus has never been a fan of one-word answers. 

It becomes apparent that he isn’t paying attention. He’s not here anymore, maybe he’s back in the Academy, with a fresh-face full of dread and fear, a deer caught in the headlights. Five doesn’t miss how his eyes never stray from the empty space that must hold a ghost, a bad one at that, until the mask slides back on and he’s back to the smiling goofy (liar) Klaus normally pretends to be. 

“Honestly, Five, if you’re going to stare you might want to close your mouth. I know I’m too much to handle, but really, you’ll let flies in,” Klaus says, all waving hands and nothing-can-hurt-me bravado. 

As they’re walking back to the house, Five files the last few seconds away in his head and promises to bring them up at a later date. If his brother can pretend everything’s fine, then so can he. 

“I wasn’t staring, idiot,” he says. 

“Oh? We’re doing the name-calling now, huh? Pipsqueak?” Klaus 

And shit. Murder is basically legal in the End of Most Things, right? Right? 

But Five bites his tongue. “For your sake, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

Klaus sets the bow down in the grass. “What, you don’t like it? Sorry, half-pint is probably more your style.” 

Five’s eye twitches. “Klaus, stop.” 

“Maybe if you asked me nicely...” 

“Would it kill you to be serious for five minutes?” Five hisses. 

“Yeah, probably. I’ve never tried - sounds boring as shit.” 

Five groans, throwing the door to the house open with a bang. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

Klaus laughs and it doesn’t sound real. 

“That’s what they used to say, too.” 

It’s barely a hint of a whisper. Quiet enough that Five could pretend he didn’t hear it. 

He bites the bullet anyway. “Who?” Five asks, turning to face him. 

Klaus looks at him like he’s an idiot. (Five's never been on the receiving end so much as he is now.) “The ghosts – who else?” 

And – _what?_

Five admits to not knowing about the supernatural world his brother walks the tightrope upon, he knows he’s missing the whole picture – honestly, he doesn’t even have a scrap of the picture, but why would they want to kill him? To kill Klaus - the same kid who always volunteered to be lookout so he wouldn’t have to hurt anyone on missions; the same kid who’d rather hurt on the inside than share his pain with the world; the same kid their family always dismissed as an attention-whore, ever since the fucking age of _**eight**_ when he started getting into weed and alcohol. 

“Why?” 

“Never thought to ask. I was too busy stealing from dad’s precious alcohol cabinet,” Klaus says. “Ha! You should’ve seen the look on his face the first time I got wasted. Like he finally realized I was going to be the family disappointment.” 

“You’re not a disappointment,” Five replies instantly. 

Klaus’ eyes skirt back to the corner of the room. “Yeah... Well.” 

“No, Klaus. Reginald shouldn’t have said that.” 

“It’s not like he was the only one. Everyone knew that I was The Umbrella Academy’s greatest fuck-up.” 

“Yes, and the others – _we_ shouldn’t have said that to you either.” 

“Yeah. Well,” Klaus says again with a shrug. “Thanks. 

Five likes to think he’s gotten better at this in the time they’ve spent together. This _feeling_ thing. Logic, numbers, facts – those are his forte, they’re comforting and constant, whereas feelings are decidedly... not. Emotions are much more complex, ever-changing, adapting to circumstance, just when Five’s gotten used to one another takes its place. 

Getting close to Klaus, out of all their other siblings, is yet another thing that could not be brought on by anything but a world-ending tragedy. Five _was_ close with Vanya, once... but. 

But now he’s not sure he’ll ever see them again. 

And who’s fault is that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next on That Shit Hurted:  
> klaus' powers work like elsa's and no i will not elaborate

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from T.S Eliot's 'The Hollow Men'.


End file.
